


Honour

by Hanna



Series: Honour Thy Father [3]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M, Loki is a bastard, PTSD, Thor and Sif have a kid, but Bylesti is amazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanna/pseuds/Hanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asgard is liberated from Jotun control, but they have yet to shake the memory of the nightmare, and Thor still suffers. When Asgard recieves a Jotun visitor and an unexpected gift, none know what to make of it, least of all their King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So this went a totally different direction to where I was planning on taking it. But oh well, I like where it went. For some reason Frigga didn't make it into this one, forgive me.
> 
> My sincerest thanks to all who commented on, kudosed and bookmarked 'Fire and Ice' I love you all.
> 
> Heavily edited.

**Honour**

Thor sits on his throne in garb not fit for a king- plain, simple cloth, lightly scattered with silver embroidery, unadorned by jewellery. His clothes are finer than those of the people around him but not by much- only the embroidery distinguishes him. So this is the direction Asgard has rebuilt in, a king dressed as one of his people. He smiles. He could see it going this way when Thor was a slave in his own palace. He was entirely too gentle and caring want to lord over anyone, too abused to be able to. Thor’s eyes are narrowed in hatred, but it is not general hatred for his kind- he is Jotnar and that is reason enough for the suspicion his people are showing- his hatred is personal, and sears him to the bone even as its expected.

His eyes slide to the tiled floor next to the throne, distaste in them, anger at his brother for breaking so gentle and good a person as Thor. Thor’s gaze follows his unwillingly before he snaps it back.

“State your business,” he says in a voice that is remarkably strong and betrays none of their acquaintance as the members of the court stare hostilely at the Frost Giant, hands reaching for weapons.

“I have yet to meet a people who shunned jewellery,” he says with forced casualness, not wanting to push Thor but deciding to play his game of indifference and watches his hands go unconsciously to his wrists with a pang of regret in his heart. Thor meets his gaze evenly.

“We do not choose to adorn ourselves as others do,” he says and his heart twists. Thor has become a better liar. He can almost believe it _is_ a choice they made out of purely aesthetic considerations rather than because they could no longer stand any reminder of their captivity. Prior to the occupation the Aesir were vain. They flaunted themselves in any way possible, wore cloaks in deep colours and glittered from all places that could hold jewellery. Rings, bracelets, necklaces and fancy hair pieces were just the start. Now the palace is more muted, their clothing humbler and the elders are clearly thankful for what simple pleasures they have. The young are as young everywhere are- brash, bold and boisterous.

He isn’t sure if it isn’t an improvement despite the circumstances that forced the change.

“It has been an age since I set foot in Asgard,” he sighs. “You were not king then.” Thor stiffens, hatred and barely buried fear flaring anew in his blue eyes. _Do not pity me_ they seem to say, and the look is familiar. _Do not dare pity me._

“If you have no business with the court then I have other business to attend to,” he says in what is clearly a dismissal, his tone vibrating with tension. The other Aesir pick up on it, moving restlessly, gripping weapons tighter. But he isn't finished.

“I have business with the court.”

“Then state it!” The legendary hospitality of Asgard is much diminished in recent ages. The Aesir no longer welcome guests into their midst- especially ones from Jotunheim. It was a miracle he got past the bifrost. Perhaps the gate keeper saw his heart. It would not surprise him.

“I have an artefact to return to Asgard,” the Jotun says and plucks Gungnir from nowhere. The court gasps and sways forward, new hatred flaring up in their eyes as they itch to take their precious relic from the Frost Giant. “Thor Odinson, I return to you Gungnir.” Thor's voice definitely trembles, this time with awe, as he speaks again, unable to take his eyes from the spear.

“In return for what?” he asks. He just shakes his head with a smile. He could demand anything in return, and Asgard would pay the price, he knows. But he isn’t here to take more from the Aesir. Enough has been taken from them by his people. He is here to give back to them what is rightfully theirs.

“It is a gift, Odinson,” he says. “For Asgard.” Thor does not take the spear. He turns suspiciously to one of his mages.

“Check it,” he orders. “For any workings that were not on it when it was in the hands of my father.” Gathering magic in his fingers to protect himself from curses, the mage gingerly holds it and vanishes. He smiles.

“You are wise,” he says. Thor rises from his throne.

“You cannot leave, B- Jotun,” he says, barely catching himself in time. “Not until I am certain you have not harmed Gungnir.” He inclines his head to him, and Thor stiffens, his lips thinning, and he remembers why he should not do that too late.

“Will I get quarters?” he asks. Thor nods, jerks his head at two guards, who flank him and lead him out.

XX

“Father?” Bruadar asks cautiously. He doesn’t understand what happened- he knows the spear, of course, is Gungnir, that it was stolen by the Frost Giants, that it was given back by a Frost Giant, but doesn’t understand why the Frost Giant cannot leave now it has been returned. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t know things. He hopes this is one of the things that he’s deemed old enough to know because he doesn’t like been told to wait until he's older either. His father is leaning against the mantle, his hands shaking uncontrollably, his mother’s arm around him.

“Hush,” she says. “We have dealt with the Jotnar before. The nine realms have accepted you as Asgard’s king, despite the past. He is but one man- no matter who he is or what he has done.”

His father presses his face into his mother’s shoulder.

“Father?” Bruadar asks again, padding closer. “Mother?” His father turns away but not before he sees he's crying. His jaw drops and his mother takes him in her arms, careful not to let him see his father’s tearstained cheeks. He buries his head in her chest; he doesn’t want to see.

“Did he hurt you, Father?” he asks earnestly and his father takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Is that why you locked him up? Why did he return Gungnir?” His father’s lips tighten and his mother hushes him. He’s always being told to be quiet. He scowls.

“Do you remember your history lessons?” he asks. Confused, thrown off his fume, he nods. His lessons can have nothing to do with this, surely. That’s history. This is now. His mother touches his father’s arm, leaves her slim hand on his bicep, an offering.

“I can do this,” she says gently but his father shakes his head.

“No, Sif,” he says. “I must tell him.” His mother puts him down and his father kneels before him hesitantly only slowly settling on his knees in a way that suggests he’s familiar with the posture, something unreadable crossing his eyes before putting his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Has this something to do with the wars with the Frost Giants?” He remembers learning about the wars with the Frost Giants, but his teachers speak little of the first and almost never of the second, and if they do, only in clinical terms. _Their occupation of Asgard lasted a thousand years,_ and _Loki Laufeyson, their king_ \- and when they speak of Loki Laufeyson their lips tighten in special hatred- _sat upon our throne._ Even that much seems to be torn from their lips, and he can't find more in the library, though he's looked. It’s as if they’re all scared to talk about them but that’s stupid, the wars were fought in the past and can’t affect them now. Pain flashes in his father’s eyes before his kingly mask is put back up, but he doesn’t want to talk to the king- he wants to speak to his father.

“Father, please answer me.” His father bows his head so he cannot see his eyes, his short blonde hair tumbling over his worry lined, wrinkled forehead. His father’s hair has always being short, shorter than is proper for a warrior (serf's hair, some say, but he doesn't know what that means), yet he insists on cutting it before it reaches his shoulders and when he asks why he never answers, not even with a ‘wait until you’re older’. It annoys him- he wants to know. Bruadar is clever, and hungry for knowledge, according to his teachers. He wants to know why. Slowly he nods.

“Asgard has fought two wars with the Jotnar,” his father says and a shudder ripples through him when he mentions the name. He knows this, of course, but he lets Father speak, because he will be lectured if he interrupts. “We won the first. We… we lost the second.” His mother places a hand on his father’s massive shoulder, squeezes it reassuringly.

“They demanded a heavy price.” He closes his eyes momentarily, drawing his arms around himself, rubbing his wrists. He always does that when he’s anxious, as if to reassure himself of something. Of what, he doesn’t know. “We had no choice but to pay.” Here he pauses, obviously trying to find the right words to continue. “They took Gungnir, my father’s sceptre. And they took my… the pride… of Asgard.” Something or someone hurt Father during that time. Anger flares up in him. He will make them all pay! “When we repelled them, I swore I- we would never bow again.” Bow? The Aesir never bow, this is what Mother says with fire in her eyes, what Father tells him gravely the nights when he cannot sleep due to nightmares. _‘The Aesir never bow to terrors, son. Don’t be scared. Don’t let it get the best of you. Sleep, son. Sleep. I’m here. I won’t leave you.’_ And as he’d spoken something hard and bitter had flashed in his eyes and his grip on his wrist tightened until it was painful, then he squirmed and Father let go as if scalded before settling more gently behind him, holding him in his arms.

“You said the Aesir never bow, Father,” he says now.

“This is not the Asgard of my youth, son,” he says after a moment. “She has changed- her heart has changed.” And he’s staring into the past, so he knows he’ll get nothing more from him and he knows better than to ask Mother, because she doesn't speak any more of the past than Father does.

XX

That night, for the first time in many decades, Thor dreams of when Asgard was under Jotun rule.

_Mother insists on dressing him in his finest robes but he stops her._

_“They are red,” he says. “Loki will see it as defiance.” And her face falls but she accepts the truth of his words. He takes a deep breath and rises from the bed before heading for the door and knocking twice on it._

_The Jotun guard glares at him but he refuses to let himself be intimidated._

_“Please call an Aesir attendant,” he says, the need for politeness nearly killing him- all he wants to do is rip the giant’s head off and banish him from his city, banish them all, forever. He hesitates, his voice unwilling to form his next words. “Ask them to bring green finery for me.” With a grunt, the Jotun nods sharply and he retreats inside again. Mother’s eyes bore into his and her smile twists sadly._

_He slips his hand into hers, needing the comfort, and she squeezes it._

_When the attendant arrives, handing over her burden under the guard’s watchful eye, Thor can see that she understands the significance of the colour. Her eyes are full of pity._

_“You will do it, your Majesty?” she asks and he just takes the clothes with a muted ‘thank you’. She just sighs, bows her head and exits. Mother fusses at his clothes, tugging them until they sit just right. Thor gazes into the mirror. The colour isn't right on him. Loki will be pleased._

_Later a Jotun arrives with a delicate box and Thor knows what’s inside. He gazes at Mother for a long moment, looks down at his green tunic and holds his wrists out. The dwarven craftsmanship is beautiful, gold and delicate, and as the manacles fuse around his wrists seamlessly he wonders what price Loki paid for them. Not having his lips sewn shut this time; he hadn't seen new scars. Then again, he wasn't looking._

_His ankles are next and he submits without a fuss. Finally comes a collar and he looks in the mirror to watch as the last vestiges of his freedom vanish. He tries to smile at Mother, his heart sinking._

_“So… how do I look?” he asks, shifting his shoulders, trying to keep things light. The shackles are light, masterful; they don’t hinder his movements at all. But he can feel them sapping his strength, pulling him down. He can even hide them under his clothes but is sure Loki won’t let him, won’t want him to forget his place._

_“Kingly,” Mother says quietly and he feels his shoulders slump as he looks around at what he is giving up, what he is surrendering for the sake of his people. He has failed his people and here is the proof, curled delicately around his appendages._

_“Thor…” Mother’s voice breaks for a second. “You don’t have to do this.” He just stares bitterly, sadly, at her._

_“Of course I do,” he says._

He wakes gasping for breath, his hands flying to his throat to ensure there is no collar there. Sif rolls sleepily over.

“Thor?” she asks. She was taken to Jotunheim during the occupation and when the Aesir stormed Jotunheim to free their people taken there she more or less rescued herself. She was not witness to Thor’s humiliations, and he is glad, so very glad that she didn't see him entirely broken.

But through all the nine realms the stories of the child king of the Aesir spread, the stories the Jotun who took him told that he struggled, spat, slashed and surrendered, slumped beneath them and just sobbed; the stories of Loki’s humiliations both public and private. She knows what’s happened to him, what he’s done. She does not blame him, nor judge him. She understands. He takes several deep breaths to calm down, not wanting to burden her with his misery.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs and she doesn’t need to ask what his dream was, doesn’t ask if he is alright, just trusts that he will be as she always has. She kisses him and rolls over again. He rises and heads to the window.

He still sleeps in the royal chambers. He is the king; he can’t afford not to. But he hates it here, cannot escape his memories of Loki, of his time as his slave, the humiliations he was forced to bear, the things he was forced to do. He rubs his wrists compulsively to remind himself that he is not chained.

Their visitor- he so wants to forget him, but cannot- has brought up all sorts of unpleasant memories, memories he’s tried so hard to forget. He’s done his best to forget that time entirely, to forget the faces of the ones who humiliated him, but none hurt him as badly as the one currently in a locked and guarded room save Loki. And he cannot forget him.

He has to find out how he came to have Gungnir in his possession and why he has returned it and asked for nothing. Once he would have said it was out of kindness but he can no longer believe that of him.

Dressing, he slips out.

XX

The Jotun is wearing merely a loincloth, as do all his kind, and despite his determination to get answers Thor feels his breath hitch. He takes a deep breath and shoves his fears aside- _he never took me whilst I was chained and helpless and he cannot now_.

“Where did you get Gungnir?” he asks in a voice that shakes despite his best efforts to keep it steady. The Jotun’s eyes tell him that he knows exactly why he is afraid. He rubs at a faint scar on his shoulder as he contemplates his answer.

“You keep your composure well,” he says instead of answering. “I was afraid Loki had broken you beyond repair.” He hears grief in his voice but no, he cannot truly feel it, not after what he has done. Thor stiffens and feels his fists curl at his side. He forces himself to relax.

“Do not pretend you care,” he hisses. “I know you better than that, Bylestir.” And the spell they have maintained, the cordial refusal to acknowledge each other, is broken. Those eyes burn into him and Bylestir reaches a hand out in offer.

He spits on it.

Bylestir nods thoughtfully, sorrowfully, _pitifully_ , and he doesn’t like it. His glare is ferocious.

“I was responsible for taking it safely from here in the event of an… uprising.” His tone is back to the forced politeness, his eyes neutral once more, as he draws his hand back. “We always assumed you would try to take your city back.” The rest goes unspoken. _We did not assume you would succeed._

“And why have you returned her now?” He is grateful to have her back; he can hardly _not_ be. The Aesir are locked out of their own treasure vault without her. But he has seen too much of the Jotnar- _Bylestir had broken his trust when he was at his most vulnerable_ -  he knows too much, entirely too much, about them to trust them. Once he believed Bylestir different to the rest of his kind but he isn’t. He is just the same. He is worse. He offered his hand in friendship and took it away. The rest of them just jeered and mocked him, never gave him false hope.

“Because it is rightfully yours,” Bylestir says and once he would have thought him sincere, but now… he glares coldly at him. He will not believe his lies again. “We can certainly do nothing with it. You decimated our armies and society just as we decimated yours, Thor.” A sad smile plays across his lips, a smile he once welcomed seeing, as Thor remains staring suspiciously at him, resisting the urge to snap at him for being so familiar with him. “Loki is held as much in account for the destruction of our society as yours.”

“I know why you mistrust me, and I do not blame you,” he says, tone warming cautiously. “But please, allow me to explain.” And Thor wants this explanation, wants to know why he so suddenly withdrew all his overtures of friendship and left him devastated, why he watched him still with the same piteous eyes as if he had no choice but to leave him, but of course he had a choice- he was not the one in chains, left for the taking wherever Loki chose to leave him for his own sick amusement.

He nods curtly once and Bylestir takes the time to gather his words. He always was more honest than Loki- _not that that is hard_ , a voice inside him whispers, _it doesn’t make him better than Loki_ \- yet his words have the same feeling to them, they are constructed to serve a specific purpose. He takes longer to gather them than Loki did his, and his are kinder than Loki’s, but that does not change that both use their words to manipulate, to hurt, to lull one into a false sense of security then snatch it away just as you think you can trust them.

“I am afraid that I was the one who ruined what we were developing.” If he thinks this is news he sadly mistook his submission for being unintelligent. Thor bares his teeth and he continues. “I went to Loki to ask him to treat you more kindly.” Thor opens his mouth to rebuff him but shuts it again, staring, breath suddenly slamming out of his chest.

“You… what?” he croaks, and Bylestir smiles sadly.

“Indeed. I was told that if I persisted in my attentions you would be cut off from your mother.” Thor stills, blinks. His mouth works silently. “I could see that she was the only thing keeping you sane, keeping you together. I could not allow him to hurt you so for my actions. I have no excuse for what I did, but I beg your forgiveness.”

“You…” Thor hesitates, takes a deep breath and gazes at the floor, torn between understanding sacrifice for the sake of people you care for and hurt at being abandoned. He can’t deal with it now.

“Once my mages assure me that Gungnir is not tampered with,” he says, raising his head, “I shall decide your fate. Do not think to toy with me, Jotun. I have seen too much of you kind and shall not hesitate.”

“I know you have,” Bylestir says- _sadly, and he can almost believe he truly feels sad_ \- his hands dropping to his loincloth and Thor’s lips thin as he fists his trembling hands in his shirt. “And I don’t doubt you will,” he finishes, sounding impressed. “They said you had gathered your strength and I was glad, but I did not believe that you would turn out so like your father upon healing.” Once that was an insult, when being of Odin’s blood was the worst offence one could commit, when the Jotun defiled him for merely being born of his father, when his own brother had used, abused and spat on him for merely being Father’s favourite and the true son of Asgard. He remembers being ashamed of being Odinson. But he isn't anymore.

“You are strong,” Bylestir says. “I knew it when I captured you, so long ago.” Ah. So it was Bylestir who had finally brought him down. He doesn’t remember through the frenzy of battle but does not doubt his words, trusts them in a way he never trusted Loki’s. “I could see then why Loki wanted you for his own.”

It’s an odd compliment, to be certain, one which brings back all the memories he wants to forget, but clearly a compliment. And Thor doesn’t hate Bylestir for capturing him. He isn’t even sure he hates him for abandoning him. He isn’t sure he ever hated him. If Bylestir had not defeated him someone else would have. He is a warrior; he understands that nothing he did could have stopped the Jotun from taking Asgard. Asgard was in disarray after a long, hard fight, her soldiers scattered, dispirited by the death of their king; the Jotun were drunk on triumph and had so clever a tactician leading them. Loki had led the Aesir to victory many times and when he had led their enemies against them none doubted he would eventually triumph, not even Thor, idealistic as he was at the time.

He pauses, looks into the other’s eyes and knows, very suddenly, that he doesn’t hate Bylestir. He ought to show that he does not hate him but cannot bring himself to incline his head, even in respect, to a Jotun ever again.

He turns and walks out silently.

XX

Gungnir is untouched by enemy spells, the court mages finally conclude. She is as she was when she was in Odin Allfather’s hands. This somehow does not surprise Thor.

For the first time in centuries Thor lifts his trembling hands to take his father’s sceptre and his tears are of joy not of pain.

XX

The key is heavy in his hands as he stands before Bylestir, Mjolnir on his belt, Gungnir clutched in his other hand. Their eyes meet for a moment and he licks his lips unconsciously, rubs his wrist nervously.

“Gungnir is unharmed,” he finally says. “You came with no army, raised no weapons against us. We have no reason to hold you.” Bylestir watches him war with himself with understanding, holding his father’s sceptre close to his body, caressing it.

“You have shown great honour and deserve no less.” The words are not merely for his return of Gungnir, he knows. They are not words of forgiveness, not yet, maybe not ever, but they are words of understanding and he appreciates that Thor can understand sacrifice and regret.

Again their eyes met and decision grows in Thor’s. He steps forward and unlocks the door, dismissing the guards on the other side.

“There is a feast tonight,” he says slowly, hesitantly. “In honour of Gungnir’s return. You are the agent of that return.” The offer is unheard of. No Jotun has ever been invited to stay in Asgard since her liberation. Bylestir considers it. It is a peace offering, and he wants to accept, but.

“I would not impose on your hospitality further, Thor, though I appreciate the offer,” he says and the relief and disappointment on Thor’s face is clear. Bylestir smiles, unoffended. “This is a celebration for your people.”

The door to reconciliation is left open between them.

Thor accompanies him to the edge of the bifrost (repaired by Loki during the occupation; it’s the one thing he's grateful to his brother for and he’d rather bite his tongue off than say that) to see him off, unwilling to leave his side yet clearly uncomfortable.

Heimdall waits patiently as Thor farewells Bylestir, the Jotun who returned Gungnir to the Aesir, and, he thinks with just a touch of hope and a great deal of uncertainty, might even be his friend.

“I am a son of Laufey,” Bylestir says softly. Thor just gazes at him.

"I know," he says. Bylestir's lip twitches.

"I suppose you couldn't not know. We write our clan lines on our bodies after all.” He turns to the golden city and smiles. “You are strong, and Asgard owes you much.” Thor steps forward.

“I thank you for returning Gungnir, Bylestir,” he says finally. “Asgard owes you a debt, and so do I. If you require aid, Bylestir Laufeyson," his voice twists on the name, "Call to Heimdall, and I shall answer.”

“If you require aid, Thor Odinson,” Bylestir says, “Call upon me, and I shall assist you.” They nod at each other, and Bylestir inclines his head in respect to Thor. With a deep, shuddering breath Thor returns the gesture. Bylestir smiles at him and steps into the bifrost.

“Farewell, Odinson,” he says, and Thor grips Gungnir’s shaft tight. “You do your father credit.”

“Farewell Bylestir." He doesn't seem able to bring himself to say the hated name again and Bylestir doesn't blame him. "You have done honour to your father also.”

“Alas, a pity our brother did not do so also.” The casual acknowledgment of their shared brother does not bother Thor as much as it might have.

“A pity indeed,” he says, more to himself than Bylestir. He nods at Heimdall, who plunges his sword into the mechanism and sets the sphere spinning. Thor watches as it thrusts Bylestir through space to Jotunheim. Heimdall gazes at Thor when it stops.

“You do yourself credit,” he says softly and watches as his king turns and walks back to his golden city, hefting Gungnir a little higher.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment!


End file.
